


Late Night Companions

by lifeofsnark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Got some fluff in here, different pace, from my usual stuff, ha, porn with a plot, sex with schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4171146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofsnark/pseuds/lifeofsnark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“ You knew there were other girls for him, and you went on a date or two yourself, but with Dean it was more, it was different. Yeah, you fucked and you enjoyed it, but it was also about companionship.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Night Companions

You met for the first time in the refrigerated section of a twenty-four hour Walmart at half past one in the morning. You were both staring blankly at the beer, suddenly overwhelmed by the options, wanting only the cold wash of hops down your throat, the warm buzz of alcohol. You sighed, and he looked over at you, purple shadows standing out over his freckled cheeks.

He glanced in your basket, taking in the chocolate chips and butter. “One of those nights, huh?” he commented; not judging, just purely sympathetic.

You nodded, looking over his own selections- 1% milk, Wheaties, and a box of cherry pop-tarts. “Early morning, or late late snack?” you asked, answering his question with one of your own.

“Neither. Both.” He shrugged. “My brother and I are in a motel down the road, couldn’t sleep, so I figured I might as well get a jump on the day.”

You each plunked a six pack in your baskets and began wandering down the empty aisles; bleary employees slowly stocking shelves. “What are you in town for?” you asked, sneaking a glance up at his profile- from his slightly gaunt cheeks to his unshaven jaw he looked tired, so tired, like a man unconvinced that the sun really would come up again.

“Work.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, pausing to push the tendons there. “My brother and I, uh, well we consult. We’re on the road a lot, under time crunches. You know.” He followed you to the little claustrophobic chute leading to the register. “What about you? Why’re you baking cookies in the middle of the night?”

“Better to bake ‘em than lose ‘em,” you muttered, grabbing your bags and standing back to let this stranger complete his transaction.

After collecting his stuff, the two of you walked out to the barren parking lot, the darkness periodically broken by pools of yellow light pouring down from the lampposts. “Losing your cookies, eh?” He paused, a thoughtful little silence. “Where you parked?”

There were only three cars in the acres of asphalt besides yours- a SUV, a giant old black car, a sedan, and your pickup, the one you inherited from your father when he passed. You pointed to the old truck, a boxy old Ford, the kind with a metal frame and diesel engine.

The stranger looked at you reassessing. “Nice.  C’mon, I’ll walk you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s going to happen between here and there?”

His eyes darkened, the purple smears over his cheekbones looking even more pronounced. “All kinds of things, sweetheart.” He stepped out into the dark, proceeding you to the truck. He stopped by the back tire and shrugged a little, staring off into the trees. “Good luck with those cookies.”

You both shuffled, two kindred spirits thrown together by a river of darkness, of loneliness, that stretched until the dawn.  “I’m Y/N, by the way. Thanks for the conversation.”

“I’m Dean, and hey, you too.”

He turned to walk away, and something- something that definitely wasn’t your good sense- prompted you to blurt out, “Hey, Dean- maybe stay for a beer?” You dropped the tailgate and patted it invitingly.

A flicker of a grin crossed his face, a little flash of relief that you recognized all too well. “Sure. Nothing better to do than screw with Sam’s stuff, anyway.”

You spent the rest of that night in the Walmart parking lot, leaning against the bed of the truck and looking at the stars talking about nothing in particular. You avoided talking about work, about family, about anything with meaning. Instead you laughed over bests and worsts- trips and lovers and kitchen experiments, the highs and lows of the human experience.

You chatted until the sky paled to lavender and the stars winked out. Neither of you actually managed to crack a beer. He gave you a tight hug before closing the door of your truck and walking away. On other nights that you laid in your bed, staring at the ceiling, you’d remember that hug, the scent of coffee and wood smoke and deodorant briefly enveloping you. You’d wonder if you imagined the feeling of his lips ghosting across the top of your head.

~~

You met Dean for the second time at work- you’d been sitting at the reference desk of the town library scribbling on a legal pad, listing out all the other jobs you were qualified to do and praying your position wouldn’t be cut along with so many others.

A throat cleared, and you shuffled a book over your scribblings. “Ma’am?” a baritone voice asked, and you looked up into a familiar pair of whiskey and pine eyes.

“Dean?” you asked, unconsciously leaning slightly forward.

“Hey!” he grinned, and came around the desk to hug you- he still smelled of coffee and deodorant and something quintessentially male.

“Are you here for work again?” You stepped back to get a better look at him. He was a little more lean in the face, a little more muscular through the shoulders, but he looked okay. He looked good.

“Yeah, and actually, you might be able to help me.”

It turned out he was looking for anthropological information on the ancient Lucayans, a people who originally inhabited the Bahamian Islands. It was a great afternoon- you were finally able to flex your research muscles again, and you spent hours bent over dusty old books smelling like faded memories and a slower time with Dean.

The day dragged on, and as you pieced together the aspects of the ancient culture you slowly came unraveled. He just- he smelled so good, and his nose would wrinkle when he found something  interesting, and he touched you- just casual brushes, a squeeze of the shoulder, but enough to send electric jolts down low in your belly.

At the end of the day the two of you exited through the side door, and after you locked the building he crowded you back into the frame and kissed you, pressed against you from thigh to breast; kissed you with all of his considerable focus and frustration and loneliness, and you kissed him right back.  

~~~

The third time you met it was the middle of the night once more. You were downstairs, wandering aimlessly, the TV flickering in the background. You were standing in front of the fridge wondering if it was worth getting drunk when you heard it- a light rap on the door, a few knocks in quick succession.

You froze, your shadow thrown sharply across the kitchen floor by the light of the still-open refrigerator. The quiet knock came again.

You tiptoed over to the window, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever was outside- burglars didn’t knock, right?

It was a man, and a tall one. As you watched he leaned back, rocking on his heels, and his profile caught the flood light- it was Dean. Your heart leapt, and you scurried into the foyer to throw open the door. He was already down the steps when you ran through the doorway, your feet bare on the cool wood.

“Dean,” you half-called, just loud enough for the sound to travel over the thrum of cicadas and crickets.

He turned and walked to the bottom of the front steps, just gazing up at you. “I uh, I used my clearance to look up your address. I was just gonna drive by, but I saw the TV on and…” he trailed off. “Guess I just wanted to say hi.”

You stood back and cleared the way to the front door. “Then come in and say hi.”

You ended up sitting on the couch, reruns of  _I Love Lucy_ playing on the TV screen. Dean mentioned that his brother had left to go do his own thing for a few days, you got the impression that  _his own thing_ involved a girl, but you didn’t ask. This wasn’t the place for that.

Two hours later you had your feet in his lap and he was slouched deep in your couch, boots kicked off under the coffee table, his eyelids at half-mast while you swapped stories of your childhood.  He was telling you about his little brother, his Sammy, keeping a stray puppy under the bed of a motel when they were kids. You laughed, picturing a twelve-year old Dean- hair too long, freckles brighter on his less-weathered face, maybe a bit of baby fat still obscuring his jaw- torn between making his brother happy and listening to his father.

A comfortable silence fell between you, the laugh reel from the TV murmuring away in the background. Dean yawned, his jaw cracking loudly, before absently running his hand up and down your leg- a touch that said  _I’m not alone,_ a touch that said  _warmth,_ a touch that said  _companionship._

You got to your feet (ignoring the creaking of your joints) and tugged on Dean’s hand, your slim fingers tangled through his own. “C’mon. Let’s go to sleep.”

He gave you a little tug right back, pulling you between his knees to stand close in front of him. He wrapped first one arm and then the other around your back, the heavy weight a comfort, and slowly leaned forward to rest the side of his face against your belly. It wasn’t sexual, not in the least, it was mutual comfort given and received. “You do this much? Invite strange guys into your bed? Not that I’m judging, God knows I’ve been around but, uh, you really don’t know anything about me, sweetheart.”

You could feel his warm breath through the cotton of your oversized t-shirt, worn thin and soft from hundreds of washings. “You knew enough to come here, right?” It wasn’t an answer, but it felt good. You walked before him up the stairs and you could just  _feel_ him checking windows and doors, noting all the points of entry, and you wondered (not for the first time) what Dean did for a living. You knew he was one of the good guys, but on the off chance that he wasn’t… well, you could live with that.

You reached your room- a few dirty socks in the corner, books stacked on the side table, a cup of water on the dresser- and shucked off your flannel pants before sliding into the bed. Dean ducked into your bathroom before doing the same, giving you an almost shy side-eye before lying down on the very edge of the bed.

Maybe you were too tired to have a brain-to-mouth filter or maybe the darkness was making you bold, because you said, “You really don’t know what to do with this, do you? You don’t know what to make of a woman who isn’t trying to get into your pants.” You paused. “Yet.”

He rolled over, the sheets rustling softly, and tugged you into his arms. “I think I can figure it out,” he drawled, his voice deep and raspy from the late night. For the first time in months you fell asleep easily, quickly, like sliding into a bath after a long day on your feet- warm and soft and soothing.

In the morning you woke up the same way.

Dean was running his hands over you in long, gentle strokes, palm moving from shoulder to side to hip to thigh and then back up again. “Hey, sweetheart, you’re late for work- like, real late,” he rumbled. Pressed up against his chest as you were you could  _feel_ him speak as well as hear it. You reveled in the way the vibrations moved though him and into you.

“Nah,” you scoffed, snuggling back tighter. “I emailed last night after you got here. I’m entitled, I think. And it’s Friday.”

Dean made a noise of approval that turned into a strangled little hiccup when you reached back to palm his growing erection through his briefs.

He tickled you,  _tickled you,_ in retaliation, his fingers skimming over the skin of your belly, making you laugh and wiggle and buck up against him, wide awake and glorying in the silliness.

He flipped you onto your belly and pinned you down, those plush lips running behind you ear, nibbling and sucking and you rocked back into him, falling into a rhythm, grinding up against him and down into the bed. His lips began cruising down your spine, kissing into the little dimples over your butt before his fingers slid into the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down and off.

At the sound of a foil packet tearing you gripped your hands into the sheets by your head, wiggling your ass a little in a universally understood request for _please hurry up and fuck me faster_ and then he did.

He tugged your legs apart and ran his fingers through your folds once, twice, flicking your clit each time, and then he was sliding into you, thrusting shallowly, his weight supported on his forearms, his fingers fisted alongside yours. Every steady rock- his hips moving like pistons, strong and sure- had your clit grinding against the mattress. Dean’s breath was panted, hot and uneven, against the back of your neck and then- and  _then-_ he started talking to you.

“Oh  _fuck_ baby. I’ve been,” he groaned a little, breaking that train of thought, “I’ve been fantasizing about this since you looked over and smiled at me in the back of your truck.”

You quivered, tightening around his hardness, your cunt openly responding to his husky baritone in your ear.

“You have too, haven’t you? Didja think about me-  _oh fuck, Christ sweetheart-_ were you thinkin’ about me that day at work? There in your prim little librarian skirt, your shoes kicked off under the table, didja think about me rucking that material up and taking you against the shelves?”

You nodded, burying your face in the pillow you were clinging to like a raft, keening. Everything was Dean- the room smelled like sweat and sex and deodorant, your lips tasted like toothpaste and sleep and man, and the creak of the bed was given the counterpoint of your bodies meeting, the gentle wet sucks of your pussy against his cock.

“I would have had to keep you quiet somehow, back in that corner,  _Jesus fuck,_ wouldn’t want someone finding us.”

Dean moved one hand up to twine his fingers through yours and you clung to him. The other hand slid up along your shoulder and over your neck, pausing where your pulse hammered, before covering your mouth with his broad palm.

You sucked a breath through your nose, impossibly turned on by the sensuality, the  _ownership_  of that act. The muscles in your abdomen began to jump in time with Dean’s rocking thrusts, wishing he would go faster, give you what you needed. You whined around the salty hand cupped over your lips.

Dean’s voice had dropped with his increasing need to come, and in a voice thick with lust he continued to croon in your ear, “I’d have covered your mouth like this, sweetheart, and you would have been so open and tender and  _oh god sweetheart, yes, good girl, Christ that’s good-“_

He continued to work you through your orgasm, in turn triggering his own. In four great surges he pounded into you, raising your hips several inches off the bed under the force of his thrusts, before collapsing to the side, pulling you with him.

For several seconds nothing could be heard but your breaths whistling over your saliva-slicked lips, the hum of the fridge downstairs, and the gentle rattle of the air conditioner. With a low creak of the bed frame Dean got up and you could hear water running in the bathroom. He was back with a washcloth, and he cleaned you both up before unceremoniously dropping the rag over the side of the bed and tugging you back against him.

“Wow,” you muttered, and he  _hmm_ ed a sound of agreement.

You woke up first after your little post-coital nap, and you brought Dean back to consciousness with your mouth, hot and wet, wrapped around his dick. He groaned and lifted his head a few inches off the pillow to see what you were doing. With a groaned  _fuck you’ve got a pretty mouth, babe,_ he wrapped your hair around his hand and placed it on top of your head. He wasn’t pushing you down onto his cock, just keeping your hair out of your mouth and face, staying connected to the bob and suck of your lips on his head and shaft.

He came almost silently this time, the muscles in his abdomen and thighs tightening and trembling, before slumping back on the bed.

You moved to straddle his belly, watching his chest rise and fall, before mentioning something your body was making more and more clear. “I’m hungry.” He nodded in agreement. “Want to order in a pizza?”

You spent the rest of that weekend in the house- watching old reruns, talking about hopes and fears (nothing too specific, but it was good, so good, to have someone to share the witching hours with), and fucking on just about every horizontal surface in your house.

When he left, you held the tears in until his big black car turned off your street, his phone number safe in your pocket.

~~

You thought about Dean solidly in the past tense, sure that your time together was limited to one perfect, incorruptible weekend, but that wasn’t how things turned out.

You got an email one day from an impala67@gmail.com asking if you would be home that night around 5.

You stared at that email for two hours, debating. On one hand, this could be a random creep and responding could land you a spot on a Criminal Minds episode as the dead body. On the other hand, the only person you knew who owned an Impala was Dean, and the promise of Dean outweighed the possibility of maybe being murdered.

You responded with one word, just ‘Yes.’

You then immediately panicked and texted a coworker, saying that if you didn’t show up to work tomorrow she needed to contact the police.

Five o’clock founding you sitting on your porch, knees drawn together with nerves, playing with the hem of your a-line skirt.

Dean pulled up at 4:48, and he gestured you to hop in the car. You did, sliding into the soft leather bench seat, and then Dean had his hand fisted in your hair and he was kissing you, kissing you like a diver coming up for air, kissing you like a dying man with nothing left but the now.

“What are you doing here?” you asked a little breathless when you finally separated your lips.

“Just driving through. I’ve got a case about 150 miles from here, but that’s close enough, right?”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Getting supplies, so this has gotta be short.”

“I’ve got a guest room,” you said impulsively. “It’s mostly full of books, but there’s a bed in there somewhere.”

Dean bit the side of your neck before cranking the engine. “Then Sammy’ll feel right at home.”

He took you to a drive in movie the next town over, and you couldn’t have told him what was playing, your focus was too stuck on Dean’s fingers playing beneath your skirt.

You and Dean and Sam- who was just as good looking as his brother, God bless their parents- ended up trying to play trivial pursuit that night. It was a wreck, Dean knew all the media questions, you knew the book ones, and Sam fucking knew everything. The game ended with you and Dean throwing your chips at Sam while he laughed and covered his beer.

~~

It was a year and a half later that you got a call from Dean, you’d been worrying and wondering about him for months. Even though you wouldn’t let yourself think it, you’d been praying over and over  _please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead._

He called on an unlisted number and asked if he could swing by, Sam had plans of his own. You said  _yeah, sure, let’s do that_ and four hours later your palms were planted on the driver’s side window of the Impala, one foot on the floor, the other leg pinned between Dean and the seat back. His hands were vise-like around the tops of your thighs, holding your shaking limbs steady, and his nose and mouth were buried lip-deep in your pussy, his tongue circling and flicking and driving you mad with a precision that brought your brain functions to a screeching halt.

Later, after, when the evening was cool and you were walking back into the house, you saw your handprints- two perfect marks- on the inside of the window. You offered to go grab a rag but Dean just grinned, said he liked seeing them there, and kissed the corner of your mouth, his lips still tacky from your slick.

In the end though the story- yours and Dean’s- was about companionship. Once he drove himself (and his reluctant but understanding brother) 256 miles to stay with you when you were sick. It was the most comforting thing that had ever happened in your adult life.

Sometimes he called in the middle of the night and you answered, because people didn’t call at 2am unless it was important, and you just talked, talked until the darkness had receded a little, until he said he could try to sleep.

You knew there were other girls for him, and you went on a date or two yourself, but with Dean it was more, it was different. Yeah, you fucked and you enjoyed it, but it was also about companionship. It was about standing together against the darkness, anchors in a life that could get so bleak, lifelines thrown out by someone who understood.

One night, after Dean had mentioned that he would try to come see you (he never promised anything, and you never asked him to) you texted him a picture of your counter, flour and eggs and butter and chocolate chips lined up neatly. It had been six years since you met him in Walmart, six years since the night you sat together in the back of your truck to stave off loneliness and despair.

So you texted him the picture with the caption, “How ‘bout those cookies?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Girl In Every Port Project on tumblr. Thank you so so much for reading through to the end! If you liked it or hated it, please leave me a comment. (I'm on tumblr at winchestersandwordprocessors).


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